


Pine and Stew

by Mallory Klohn (malloryklohn)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-10
Updated: 2009-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malloryklohn/pseuds/Mallory%20Klohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode tag to, um, the one where Jim goes undercover in prison and becomes an amateur professional wrestler or whatever the hell happened.  Blair attempts to comfort Jim after his ordeal, but he's kind of fucking bad at it.  No pun intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pine and Stew

**Author's Note:**

> When I first posted this, it was under the title "Woe is You I: Pine and Stew." I had it in mind to make it a series. (I was just coming off of a series-related "X-Files" high.) But the series never materialized, and so I've altered the title just a little bit. It's a whole new way to love the same old crap, is what I'm saying.

** Woe is You I: Pine and Stew **

by  
Mallory Klohn

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. He did _what?_"

Simon shifted uncomfortably on the sidewalk. "He, uh, that is--"

"Simon. _Spill_."

"He went for a walk."

"Just now."

"Yeah."

"By himself."

"Yeah..."

"What are you, a pod person? He just went ten rounds with Andre the  
Giant, he's bleeding, he's _limping_, for Christ's sake, and he has  
big red circles like _this_ around his eyes," here he paused to demonstrate  
with his hands, "and you let him take a _walk?_"

"Sandburg, I don't think you're looking at this like--"

"He can't see! He probably can't hear either--"

"I should be so lucky."

"He's unarmed, he can barely walk, and he's wandering the area wearing  
a fucking _prison_ uniform! Are you _insane?_"

Simon swallowed. "He... he..."

"What?"

"He said he wanted to walk out in the open," Simon muttered, avoiding  
Blair's eyes.

"Did anybody tell _you_ how many blows to the head he took tonight?"  
He sighed explosively. "Forget it. It must be a trend."

"Now look here--"

"Which way did he go?"

"That way," he said dryly, pointing at the arena's single exit.

"How the hell did you think he was going to get home? The magic carpet  
in his cell?"

"Sandburg, I admit it was maybe a little..."

"What?"

"Ill-considered."

"Ill-considered? Ill-_considered?_ What do you think the guards  
are going to think when they see him--"

"Sandburg. The longer you stand here tearing me a new asshole, the better  
the chances are that we'll find _out_ what the guards are going to  
think. Get it?"

They stared at each other in synchronized hostility, each man in the  
classic crossed-armed, spread-legged pose of the unreasonable, unwilling  
to listen, pissed-off man. Jim was wandering the prison grounds in a daze,  
and Blair had had it with playing peace-maker. "Are you going to help me  
find him?"

"Aw, Christ, Sandburg, the man wants to be alone. If we go chasing after  
him--"

"And find him lying in a ditch somewhere--"

"He can take care of himself."

"Simon, he's a big, cranky guy who can see a license plate from another  
state. That doesn't mean it won't hurt if you kick him in the nads, all  
right?"

Simon smirked. "That's an illegal move."

"I'll find him myself. He can take his goddamned personal time _after_  
they've cleared up the gangrene." Blair shoved past the Captain and stormed  
out of the arena.

What kind of half-witted idiot would have let Jim leave in the first  
place? Blair had turned away for maybe a minute, probably less than that,  
and by the time his attention was fully focused on his partner again, the  
man had done a runner. He was like a baby that way. All you had to do was  
blink and the guy was sticking his fork into somebody's light socket. There  
was no keeping up with him, and certainly no stopping him. Jim could wax  
eloquent on Blair's natural energy all he wanted, but he would never understand  
how much _work_ it was. It was beginning to tell on Blair, and that  
was a bad sign. No man of his size and temperament could hope to survive  
talking to Simon Banks as he had, and no sane man would try. And yet...  
When he could have been calm, reasonable, understanding, he came out with  
"what are you, a pod person?"

Blair knew Jim well enough to have a rough idea of where his partner  
might have gone. It went both ways, though. Jim knew Blair well enough  
to know where to hide. The Curse of the Sneaky Black Ops Guy. Blair knew  
Jim had lived through worse, and probably would again. And even with innumerable  
blows to the head, he was still capable of out-sleazing Blair, any day  
of the week. But Blair took it personally, a fact he had no trouble admitting.  
Yes, Jim had faced things Blair couldn't even imagine, and yes, he had  
survived them alone. But now, he didn't have to. That he chose to do it  
anyway was offensive to Blair.

After cruising the grounds for almost half an hour, he found Jim sitting  
on the curb next to a bus shelter, his head propped up in his hands. The  
detective's face was free of expression, almost slack from it, and his  
eyes were cold. _I sure do like them french-fried pertaters. Mm-HM_.  
"Damn it," he muttered. "This isn't funny." He sat down on the curb next  
to Jim and touched his friend's arm. "Jim. You in there, man?"

Jim didn't respond. "_Jim_." Blair gently turned Jim's head toward  
him. There was no sign of recognition, no Jim, no nothing. _Deaf, dumb  
and blind boy, he's in a quiet vibration-land..._ "Shit!" A snicker  
escaped him. _This is stress, it has to be stress_. Jim was a wreck.  
His face was a ruin; cut, bruised, swollen, and bearing red circles from  
the mace, he was a living victim of vandalism. Someone would have to die  
for this.

"Follow my voice, buddy. Listen for me, and follow me back." Blair started  
squeezing Jim's arm rhythmically, talking all the while. What Jim didn't  
know, and what Blair would never tell him, was that when the detective  
was stuck in a particularly bad zone, Blair gave up on saying anything  
sensible after about fifteen minutes. There were only so many times he  
could say "Follow me back" before he started feeling like a refugee from  
_Star  
Wars_. _Help me, Obi Jim Kenobi, you're my only hop_e. Jim was  
like a baby that way, too. As long as the tone was right, Blair could say  
anything to him and still expect decent results. Jim wasn't listening for

_Rime  
of the Ancient Mariner_, after all.

"The owl and the pussycat went out to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat,"  
he said, checking his watch. "They took some honey, and plenty of money,  
wrapped up in a five-pound note. The owl looked up to the stars above and  
sang to his small gitar: what the fuck will we do for food, we're a hell  
of a long way from Dar's."

Blair stared at Jim. His face was still as slack as before, but his  
eyes seemed a little more expressive. _Ooh, gotta see Wapner_. He  
rolled his eyes. This was getting him nowhere. "Jim, come on. You keep  
this up, the deli's going to be all out of pastrami by the time we get  
there. Mm... pastrami. When was the last time you had a good pastrami sandwich,  
Jim? I bet you never zoned on gruel."

Cars passed them occasionally, usually rubber-necking it, but Blair  
paid them no attention. "Okay, let's try another one. Uh... One part of  
love is jealousy, one part of love is pain, one part is the embarrassment  
of explaining horrific stains. One part of love is steamy sex, one part  
of love is-- uh, doing the dishes..."

"What the hell happened to 'follow my voice, Jim'?"

"Jim!" Blair gripped his friend's head in both hands, staring into his  
eyes. "Thank god, man, I was waiting for some cult members to drive up  
and tell me you'd left your vessel and gone to a happier place."

"Any place you're not talking is a happier place," said Jim. He scowled,  
glancing around him. "I zoned."

"Yep."

"I wasn't here when it happened."

"Well, that's not that unusual. Your unconscious mind might have directed  
you here." He looked away. "Of course, it was nowhere to be had when you  
decided to play Choose Your Own Adventure," he muttered.

"Yeah, yeah. You can read me the riot act later." He unfolded himself  
from the curb with an agonized groan. "Christ. My _eyelashes_ hurt."

"We'll get you home, cleaned up--"

"Fed," Jim said. "I haven't eaten anything decent in more time than  
I care to remember."

"I keep telling you, Jim. You gripe and complain about the stuff I feed  
you, and the minute somebody tries to give you something else, life as  
you know it is _over_."

"If you knew what they've been feeding me..." Jim took a step, and stumbled  
immediately. "Damn it."

"Oookaaay. Now we know," said Blair, quickly sliding under Jim's arm  
to support him as they walked.

"I can walk," Jim grumbled.

"Jim, you're a telethon waiting to happen, all right? Bite the bullet  
and bear the shame."

"I need a bath," he said, shuffling down the road.

"You're telling me, buddy."

"Probably some Band-Aids or something," he mumbled.

"I just bought a new box."

"Bed," he sighed dreamily. "_My_ bed."

"If we can get you up the stairs."

"I can make it up the _stairs_, Sandburg."

"Just a thought."

"Beer," he said. "And pastrami."

Blair froze. "What?"

"If we get to Marathon Deli soon enough, they'll still have that thin-sliced  
pastrami. And those little pickles."

Blair blinked, and started them walking again. _In an eerie parallel  
to that pod person thing..._ "I'll even let you get double meat," he  
finally said.

Jim snorted. "Like you could stop me."

"You haven't even got your shoelaces, Jim. I've got a wallet, I've got  
my belt--"

"Cut it out. I just had a flashback to my days in Vice."

"Man, I do _not_ want to know."

*** *** ***

Jim paused on the threshold of the loft, leaning against the nearest  
wall. "Jim, you all right?" The detective closed his eyes and took a deep  
breath. Blair smiled. "You're not going to kiss the floor or anything like  
that, are you?"

"The way you clean? I don't think so."

"That is _so_ unfair, man. I've been keeping the place spotless  
for your big homecoming."

Jim opened one eye. "I notice you didn't rush to get me a beer."

"I wanted to wash your feet first," Blair said.

"That reminds me," he said absently, eying the bag in his partner's  
hand.

"What a dilemma," said Blair. "You're like one of those lab rats who  
starves to death because he'd rather have a teeny little rodent orgasm  
than a nice bowl of Rat Chow."

"Nice imagery, Sandburg," he said, snatching the bag from Blair's hand.  
"I can eat it in the bath." Without sparing Blair another look, Jim took  
his sandwich and stomped down the hallway to the bathroom.

"Don't come crying to me if you drop it, man," Blair called after him.  
Jim slammed the bathroom door. "Jerk," Blair muttered. After he had a beer  
for himself safely in hand, he sat down on the sofa and unwrapped his own  
sandwich. If Jim had caught him eating in the living room on any other  
occasion, painful, bloody death would be certain. Today, however, Blair  
was pretty sure he could take his partner. _Ooh, piledriver_. Once  
Jim was hospitalized, Blair could bask in an evening of humility, and hopefully,  
would never hear 'shorty' again.

"Blair!"

He dropped his sandwich and turned quickly. Never sure of the extent  
of Jim's abilities, the possibility raced through his mind that Jim had  
somehow sensed the combination of Blair and seafood sub in the living room,  
and was already looking for something to beat him with. "Uh... what?"

"Blair!" Jim cried again, and Blair grinned. That was no angry shout.  
_That_  
was the pitiful bleat of a helpless man. _Bask in your power, Blair,  
this day may never come again_.

Rising slowly, he trudged down the hallway, half-hoping he'd get a chance  
to hear Jim beg. When he reached the door, he found it locked. "Jim?"

"What, did you stop to read the paper before you came?"

"What do you need?"

"I need you to get your ass in here, that's what I need," he grumbled.

"Jim," he said reasonably, "the door is locked. I mean, I've always  
wanted to kick one in, but I thought--" The door swung open to reveal Jim,  
towel-clad, surrounded by steam. Whatever else had happened there, he hadn't  
lost his sandwich. He favored his guide with an indignant glare.

"You could have offered to help."

"Jim, lose your arms in a threshing machine and I'll bathe you, all  
right? Did you want something, or did you just get me down here to piss  
me off?"

"Jesus, Sandburg, who's been tripping over _your_ bridge?"

He raked his hair. "I'm sorry. I'm a little tense."

Jim smirked. "You're not the one who spent the last week in a federal  
institution."

"Yeah, well, you're not in prison, and I'm not your girlfriend, all  
right?" Jim's eyes hardened. "Oh, Christ, Jim, what--" The detective shoved  
Blair's chest and slammed the door in his face. "Jim, I'm sorry. Come on,  
I didn't know. Look, I saw 'The Shawshank Redemption,' I know what goes  
on--"

The door swung open again. "I wasn't somebody's _girlfriend_, Sandburg,"  
he snarled.

Blair raised his hands in surrender. "All right, okay. Forget I mentioned  
it."

"I _did_ want something from you," he added.

"Name it," Blair said.

Jim gestured at himself, and Blair had to stifle a snicker. Though he  
was sure it was unintentional, Jim looked like some kind of XXX game show  
host, about to say "All this can be yours, if the Price is Right!" But  
his body had taken even more of a beating than his face had, and he had  
to be sore... "I can't..." He waved his arms helplessly. "I just can't."

_Can I possibly be this insane? ...Possibly_. "All right, all right.  
Let's have a look." Jim leaned against the bathroom counter, the picture  
of weariness. "Open or closed?" Blair asked.

"Closed," Jim said immediately. "No, open."

"You might get a draft..."

"I'm wearing a_ towel_, Sandburg. A draft is kind of a given."

Blair dug out the first aid kit. "Where's the Ben-Gay?"

"Ohhh, no. No way."

"Way, man. You're not going to be able to walk tomorrow."

"I don't _want_ to walk tomorrow," he declared. "Besides, maybe  
_you_  
would wind up with a lot of lactic acid build-up, but my body is my temple."

Blair smirked. "If your body is your temple, it's a wonder Jesus isn't  
standing around whining about the money-changers."

"Are you going to help me, or not?"

"I'll help you," he said. "Hold still." Jim hissed when Blair started  
working on a cut. "Dial it down," he said.

"It's nothing."

"Jim, you don't have to play strong-man with me, all right? I've seen  
you with bed-head."

The detective smiled. "That's exactly why couples should never live  
together," he said. "You lose all respect for someone when you see them  
vulnerable."

Blair made a point of looking Jim up and down. "Actually, I find it  
kind of reassuring," he said. "Besides, we're not a couple."

"Same principle," said Jim. We live together, we work together, and  
every time I need you to do something, you're singing 'bed-head, bed-head,  
I've seen Jim with bed-head.'"

"I don't do it _every_ time."

"Yeah, but you- Shit! Why don't you just pour salt in the fucking thing?"

"Dial it down," Blair said patiently. Once he'd finished with Jim's  
chest to his satisfaction, he knelt on the floor to get better access to  
his partner's legs. "How in the name of all that's holy did you manage  
to get bruises on your feet?"

"How the hell should _I_ know?" he said irritably.

"Bed-head, bed-head..." Jim snickered. Blair faked a heart attack. "You  
getting a cold or something, man? You know I have another song for when  
you're sick, don't you?"

"You do not."

"Are you kidding? 'Blair,'" he whined, "'I need more orange juice. Blair,  
this pillow is too hard. Blair, I can't reach my bonbons.' I have friends  
who call me Sanderella."

"You do _not_."

"I do so." He looked up. Blinked. Jim was braced against the counter,  
gazing down at him. This was nothing new, but it hadn't occurred to Blair  
when he'd first hit the floor that this situation might look totally different  
if he was holding a jar of Vaseline instead of a bottle of Ben-Gay. Life  
was so unfair that way. Jim always dated mysterious women, and Blair always  
got stuck holding the appropriate pharmaceutical product for whatever stuffing  
Jim had beaten out of him that week. If he thought about it long enough,  
he'd probably be able to come up with a decent country music selection  
for the situation.

Blair cleared his throat. "Uh, turn around, and I'll do your back."

Jim turned and bent over the counter, without a moment's hesitation.  
What with Jim's protruding ass and the lingering steam, Blair was taken  
back to the hazy bath-house days of his youth. Their eyes met in the mirror,  
and Blair flushed. "What's with you?" Jim demanded.

"Nothing," Blair squeaked.

"Uh-huh." Blair started rubbing the Ben-Gay into Jim's shoulders, pointedly  
not looking in the mirror. Jim arched into his hands, sucking in an ecstatic  
breath. "Oh, yeah," he moaned. "Christ, Chief, that feels so good..."

Blair swallowed hard. The smell of the liniment was all-pervasive, even  
to him, but here was Jim, sounding for all the world like Blair _was_  
his girlfriend, and what was Blair supposed to do about that? In mere seconds,  
he'd gone from flaccid to fully, painfully erect, all over a little Ben-Gay  
misunderstanding, and Jim _trusted_ him, god damn it-

"No, don't stop," Jim gasped. Blair kneaded his back. Jim slid a little  
on the counter. "Do it harder," he urged. "Yeah, that's it," he mumbled  
contentedly. "Do it... yeah..."

Blair couldn't help himself. He looked up. Jim's eyes were closed, a  
huge, satisfied smile on his face. Blair stared at him, watched him as  
he arched almost rhythmically into his guide's touch. Blair watched his  
own jaw drop. Jim writhed against him, gasping, and before Blair could  
summon up something to say that was appropriate to the situation, Jim opened  
his eyes. Hot, dark, dangerous, they were the answer to the look in Blair's  
own. Blair released him immediately, staggering badly, eyes wide.

"Looks okay, now," he squeaked, backing toward the door. "Uh, I have  
a lot of work to do tonight, so I think I'll just..."

"I'm not loose yet," he complained, his voice thick with... what?

"You're loose enough!" .

"Blair, what's--" Jim's hand darted out to grab his guide's arm. Unfortunately,  
it was the same hand that had been supporting his towel. It fell to the  
floor, and Blair gaped. He sometimes forgot Jim was even capable of _getting_  
an erection, and yet, there it was.

"What the hell is that?" He demanded, pointing accusingly at Jim's cock.

Clearly torn between a rude remark and the need to pick up his towel,  
Jim opted for both, mumbling something about high school health classes  
while he scrabbled around on the floor. Blair bolted from the bathroom,  
slamming the door behind him. "Oh, _man_," he groaned, leaning against  
the wall. "This is strange, this is fucking Twilight Zone. This is..."  
He glanced back at the bathroom door. "Wait a minute." _Since when can  
you get high off a little Ben-Gay?_ He squinted. _I'm turned on, nothing  
new. Jim is turned on, and maybe it's because he watched too much 'Baywatch'  
in the klink, but on the other hand, I didn't notice a woody when I picked  
him up. And I'm freaking out because..._

The door opened a crack. "Chief?"

Blair grabbed the doorknob and yanked the door shut again. "Just give  
me a minute, all right? Jesus." He leaned against the doorjamb, one hand  
over his mouth. _Could have been an involuntary response, could have  
been, could have... _"Bed-head, bed-head, I've seen Jim with bed-head,"  
he muttered. Blair took a deep, calming breath. He turned to the door.  
"Jim," he said tentatively, "can I ask you a personal question?" He heard  
the doorknob rattle. "Don't open the door!"

"Come on, Sandburg, I feel stupid talking to you like this."

"You open that door, and I am _so_ gone."

"Fine," Jim sighed. "Ask."

Blair closed his eyes and thought hard. One wrong word and he'd be trolling  
for sleazy hotel rooms within the hour. "That's a hard-on," he blurted.  
"You have a hard-on."

"What, you never saw one before?"

"Not _yours_, man. Not in my personal space."

"What are you asking me, here?"

Blair swallowed. "I-- uh, that is, when you go for massage therapy--"

"Never."

"Right. And, say, your chiropractor--"

"Give me a break."

"Stupid question. Sorry." Blair sighed. "So, just now, you're..."

"Diamond-hard and ready for action?"

"Another sensitive remark from the throwback. Thank-you, Jim, the thing  
I need most while I'm standing out here tearing my hair out is wanton mockery.  
That just makes it so much easier." Blair started down the hallway, still  
tearing at his hair.

"Chief?" Jim called tentatively.

"It doesn't really make you go blind, Jim, I swear."

"I'll bet you conducted tests," he snickered. "You never did say how  
you wound up with glasses--"

"Well, I bet I know how you ended up with a squint!" he called back.  
When he got to the living room, he donned his jacket and rewrapped what  
remained of his sandwich.

"Where are you going?" Jim caught up with him at the door. No matter  
what Blair could say about Jim, at least he'd had the decency to find his  
robe before he came after his guide.

"For a drive."

"Don't go," he said quietly. "Please."

"This is too weird, man."

Jim shook his head. "I thought-- the look on your face, I just-- aw,  
forget it. Go."

Blair opened the door.

"That's it? You're leaving?"

Blair threw up his hands. "Bring back Jim," he said. "I want to talk  
to Jim."

"Ha ha," Jim said. "Look, I'm sorry, all right? I was into it, and I  
thought you were into it, and I thought 'at last, it's finally going to  
happen for us,' and next thing I know, you're outside singing that bed-head  
song."

Blair glared at him. "What do you mean I was into it?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "What am I, Idiot Boy? You've been mincing around  
me from day one."

"_Mincing?_"

"As your friend, I feel it my duty to tell you, Helen Keller could pick  
up _your_ signals. As far as _I _go, you might as well stick  
your hand down my pants."

Blair gaped. "That is _so_ delusional, Jim. You think I spend all  
my time mooning over you and writing _love_ poetry? What, did somebody  
find Blair's 'Wonder of Jim' site on this week's Yahoo web picks?"

"You're denying it?" Jim was incredulous.

"When exactly did you hop the trolley to the Land of Make-Believe? Desiree  
in Records keeps telling me you're a dreamboat, but Desiree only sees LL  
Bean Boy, talking tough and smiling over the inclusion of Pop Tarts in  
the new vending machine. I _know_ you, man."

Jim smiled, weakening Blair's resolve. "That's what I like about you,"  
he said. "You _know_ me." Blair meant it as an accusation, but Jim  
gave the word a world of innuendo.

"That's right. And this is _so_ not you. I mean, all right, okay,  
you did time. Well, not _did time_, but did time. Whatever. Now you're  
out, you're enjoying your freedom, new lease on life, yadda yadda yadda.  
Great. Go for long walks, eat Grape Nuts, I don't care. But you can't just  
come running up to me waving your dick around like your real name is Rod  
Goodbody and expect me to roll over for you, all right?"

The detective scowled. "You think this is some... impulse?"

"No, I think it's at least two, and neither one is good. Jim, where  
the hell is this coming from? I mean, maybe I'm not always living in the  
now, but I think I'd notice if you were harboring, like, some forbidden  
passion for me."

"You're the only one who's forbidding it," he griped. "Simon's been  
going to PFLAG meetings since you moved in."

"Excuse me?"

"Not everybody is handing out reading glasses to people who can't read  
them that well, Blair. Not everybody is striking up conversations with  
total strangers about their childhood experiences."

"What the hell are you trying to say? You've wanted me all along?"

"Blue balls, blue balls, I've seen Jim with blue balls..."

Blair shook his head. "With one minor nude scene, my life has gone from  
Anne Rice to A.N. Roquelaire."

"Minus the spanking. And the group sex. I have a rule about that."

"Of course you do," he said automatically. "No food in the living room,  
use only red Tupperware, no rolling around naked on Mazola-covered tarps  
with complete strangers..."

"Chief, come on," he said gently, wrapping his arms around Blair. "This  
doesn't have to be so melodramatic."

"At least give me that," Blair cried.

Jim tugged on his guide's hair until they were face-to-face. "Blair,  
please?"

"No."

"When do I ever ask you for anything?"

"You bastard! I--" Jim kissed him hotly, moaning helplessly into Blair's  
mouth. It was more than Blair had ever hoped for, and far better than he  
expected. He'd just assumed he was the superior kisser-- Jim had to be  
inferior to him _somehow_\-- but here was proof, however pleasant,  
that there was yet another area at which his partner excelled. Pent-up  
longing or new lease on life, it made no difference to Blair now. He wanted  
Jim naked again, wanted to kneel before him again, wanted to make Jim feel  
good in a way Ben-Gay and pastrami never could.

"Shit, Sandburg," Jim gasped when he could pull away, "I thought you  
were going to need some convincing."


End file.
